


King, Queen, Knave

by evil_whimsey



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Host Club ensemble, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Once he's envisioned the outcome he desires, Kyouya begins to plan, and devise, and very quickly he realizes that Fujioka Haruhi is going to be a problem.</i>  </p>
<p>A repurposing of events from manga chapters 22-27, during the Cultural Festival, from Kyouya's viewpoint.  Written in 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1.

So far as Ootori Kyouya is concerned, competition for the Central Salon at the Ouran school festival was over the moment the Host Club applied for it. They had contrived to concede the prize to the student council the previous year, by unanimous agreement and without regret, for it had been the appropriate decision at that time.

But there is a time to give away a prize in the interest of future benefit, and there is a time to grasp victory in both hands, and this year the Host Club will have the Central Salon. Not only will they win, they will achieve their aim in spectacular, memorable fashion, as befits their reputation in all things.

"All your brothers were at the top of their classes when they were at school," says his father. "I'm sure you know that alone won't impress me now."

As if it even needs mentioning. For as long as Kyouya can remember, his father has been explicitly clear on what was expected of him as an Ootori, and the youngest son of a brilliant, ambitious family. The rota of expectation has been a principle fixture in his experience, kept ever before his gaze, in one way or another since childhood. Like a prayer on a prayer wheel, turning and turning, grinding out the same petition year after year. He is no less bound to the future laid out for him at birth, than he is bound to the earth by gravity. His father's wishes are the fundamental facts of Kyouya's life, inescapable and omnipresent.

There is no competition or challenge the school could devise that would remotely approach the rigours of growing up Ootori. The contest for the Central Salon will be a child's game for him; he knows this before the terms of the competition are even announced.

He thinks that in addition to engineering the Host Club's success this year, he will give himself the bonus prize of defining the precise shape and savour of their victory. Each member of the club, he decides, will shine according to their talent. The spectators will be kept spellbound throughout, and their competitors will believe they have every chance of winning--right up to the moment of their decisive defeat.

Once he's envisioned the outcome he desires, Kyouya begins to plan, and devise, and very quickly he realizes that Fujioka Haruhi is going to be a problem.

*

One might not know it at a casual glance, but Haruhi is a very, very bright girl. Her academic achievements aside, she is capable of devastating insight, in the most unexpected situations; Kyouya can attest personally to this.

Having stumbled unprepared into Ouran's cloistered microcosm of privilege and wealth, she is socially adrift much of the time, forever being brought up short by circumstances the other students have taken for granted all their lives. That being said, he's watched her adapt at impressive speed this year, and has wondered more than once if any of them would fare as well in her world--of train tickets and budget meals, instant coffee and apartment housing--as she has fared in theirs.

It is at the end of a long day of classes, followed by the perennial insanity of Host Club hours, followed by dinner at home, homework, and final revisions for tomorrow's Physics examination, that Kyouya pulls up the encrypted folder on his laptop for the data pertaining to his plans for the competition.

She is going to see right through this, he thinks.

He isn't sure how, or when (though knowing the girl, it will be the most inconvenient moment possible). But he can picture it in his mind: Haruhi, standing apart from the group, taking a short respite from the Hitachiin twins' predations and Tamaki's theatrics, gears turning apace behind her deceptively absent gaze. She will see something amiss in the arrangements, something not quite square.

First she will suspect, then calculate, and then announce her conclusion to the group the instant she reaches it, her ruthless logic steamrolling its way over discretion or second thoughts.

Losing the illusion of true competition will of course negate a goodly part of the reward for their effort, and taint the entire enterprise for the Host club. An unacceptable outcome, and one which Kyouya must at all costs circumvent. But how?

He thinks and schemes, discarding dozens of ideas, from reasonable to ridiculous. But after two hours without an answer, he's forced to admit that the problem won't be solved tonight. He'll have to sleep on it, and see how things look in the morning.

That night, he dreams strangely.

" _Don't forget to take the Joker from the deck, Senpai,"_ says dream-Haruhi, perched in his lap.  _"We don't use wild cards in this game."_

" _Then what shall I do with him?"_ he asks her, the cards shuffling slick in his hands, flashing through his fingers like trickster magic.

_"Set him aside for luck."_ And with a smile full of mischief, she slips off his glasses, folding the frames delicately. _"And I'll set these aside."_

He isn't worried. In this dream, his plans have come to beautiful fruition. Everything is already in his hands.

_"But how do you expect me to see?"_  Pretending sternness for the sake of their game.

Her laugh is a bright, sweet thing. " _You can see well enough to steal a kiss, can't you?"_

Of course he proves her right.

*

The content of the dream he dismisses as spare baggage of his adolescent male psyche. It is nothing more or less than the normal, healthy product of a subconscious awash in hormones, and wholly insignificant to Kyouya beyond that. What preoccupies him upon waking, then through breakfast and school preparations, is the dream's _context_ , particularly the significance of that deck of cards.

Could there be a message in this, that might help solve his dilemma? What could it mean, Haruhi reminding him to take out the Joker, the wild card, from the deck he was shuffling?

She obviously functioned as a wild card in his contest schemes; rather than trying to hide his plans from her, should he look for a way to prevent her competing altogether?

Though the solution would be simple to execute it feels dishonourable to him, and seems an inelegant way of securing his aims. He will save it for a last resort.

_"...take the Joker from the deck...,"_  she had said.  _"Set him aside for luck."_

Kyouya leaves off trying to read the morning headlines, and picks up his phone.  
"I have an errand to run before classes this morning," he tells the driver. "I'll be ready to leave in five minutes."

Last week, the car had taken an alternate route to avoid traffic, and he recalls passing an eye-catching storefront display full of games and novelties. If there is any place he's likely to find a deck of cards on a moment's notice, it will be there, and he reasons that buying it himself is more expedient than sending someone to purchase the item and bring it to him later in the day.

He is looking for inspiration, and needs to find it quickly.

*


	2. Chapter 2

2.

"Neh, Tono, you want five costume changes for the Host Club at the festival?" Hikaru's tone carries a distinct note of grievance, to Kyouya's ear.  
"That's thirty-five costumes we'll have to create," Kaoru chimes in, in the same key. "In only three weeks."

"Nowhere near enough time," Hikaru complains.

Tamaki gives every appearance of listening to the brothers, but perhaps fails to hear what's being said. This is not unusual for him.

Kyouya saw them enter the Third Music Room moments ago in familiar formation: Regent Tamaki flanked by his matched pair of Court Jesters. Now Tamaki slides into another role from his repertoire, the one Kyouya thinks of as War General Addressing His Troops.

"No effort is too great for our showing at the festival," he tells them. "The Host Club's public debut must be a triumph of lavish style and ingenuity! No expense must be spared--." From his seat across the room, Kyouya clears his throat meaningfully, and Kaoru interrupts.

"It isn't an issue of effort or expense, Senpai," he says. "Hikaru and I would need at least another month to design that many garments. Never mind the time the seamstresses need to make them."

"Besides that, we have the Class 1-A costumes to do," adds Hikaru.

"And you wouldn't want us to skimp on our designs, would you?" Kaoru asks.  
Hikaru fills in with, "Sacrifice quality for quantity?"

"Unthinkable," they say in chorus.

Tamaki deflates in the face of their mutiny. The mutineers turn their backs on him in whispered conference, leaving Tamaki to address the only audience he has left: Kyouya, who was only hoping for a few quiet moments to work before the doors opened to customers.

"Mother, do you hear this news? We're ruined! These Hitachiin have taken other commitments, with no thought to their family's reputation."

"Then we should call the rental company we use for theme days," replies Kyouya. "Although they may be booked with orders from the rest of the school. We might have to be content with whatever they can offer us."

Tamaki gasps as though he'd said something scandalous. "Unthinkable!" Echoing the twins' earlier sentiment. Kyouya does not bother mentioning that rented costumes will be considerably easier on the club budget than thirty-five custom garments bearing the Hitachiin Couture label. Tamaki's ability to assimilate practicalities is limited after all, and Kyouya hates wasting his breath.

"The jewel of Ouran High School, in hired costume for the premiere event of the year!" Tamaki declaims. "Are we to simply accept this? It is of course no great sacrifice for myself but Kaoru, Hikaru, think! Would you subject poor Haruhi to this ignominy as well?"

As if summoned by the words, the girl in question enters. The twins' mutterings abruptly cease, as they look first to her, and then to their distraught leader. For a moment, the tableau holds; Tamaki staring at Haruhi, anguished by whatever bizarre drama plays out in his imagination, the twins obviously calculating  _something_  and Haruhi, having just walked into the midst of this pregnant pause, looking as if she'd like very much to walk right back out.

"Whatever it is," she says guardedly, eyeing Tamaki, Kaoru, and Hikaru with equal suspicion, "my answer is probably no."  
Kyouya, to all appearences absorbed in his notes, privately approves her caution.  Smart girl.

Hikaru's head snaps toward Tamaki. "We can do three costume sets, if two of them are uniforms."  
"But no period designs, or custom fabrics," Kaoru stipulates. And with that, they dismiss Tamaki and the negotiations, in favor of stalking Haruhi.

Kyouya tunes them all out from there. Something is tugging at his conscience, some detail he ought to remember, and he wants to take a final look at the Club's schedule and designations in case he's missed something. A guest's birthday perhaps, or a food allergy. Something.

Thorough as he is, the detail eludes him until moments before the guests arrive. Until he opens his briefcase to store his folders, and sees it. The card deck, gone untouched all day.

By then it's too late, of course. Examination of the cards, and all the rest of his plans, will have to wait until day's end. For now, the Third Music Room is coming to life with the flutter and hum of more than a dozen eager ladies; the afternoon's first group of customers.

The Host Club is open.

 

A new complication awaits him at home, as if he didn't have enough complications already. Perhaps this is a new season he didn't know about; the Complicated season, when odd signs and portents flourish. Perhaps his diet needs more calcium, or he needs more sleep. 

He stands at the south entrance to the house, key in one hand and briefcase in the other, trying to make sense of what's been left there. It's probably safe for him to inspect, but he takes the route of caution, and rings estate security on his mobile.

"No one saw who left this?" he asks.  
"We've reviewed the surveillance tapes, Ootori-san," the man tells him. "But no identification has been made yet."

The paper envelope wedged in the door frame offends him by its very presence, and he glares at it. "I assume an inspection has been done?"

"We examined the paper thoroughly for chemical and biological hazards, but it's clean. It's been replaced exactly as we found it."

"Fingerprints?"  
"None, sir."

"Very well. Thank you for your attention to the matter." He rings off and returns the phone to his pocket.

_I don't have time for this,_ he thinks, snatching the envelope from the door crevice on his way inside.

His first impression of the letter is that it's, well, vulgar:

  
**Withdraw from the salon race, or else!**   


It's made in the style of a ransom note, each letter cut out individually from a printed source. He is amused that the messenger went to the trouble of proper punctuation but aside from that, the words are too vague and simplistic to lend any consequence to the threat. Withdraw from the salon race, or else what?

Knowing that the entire security team has already seen this message and drawn their own conclusions, he rings the office again.

"Has Master Ootori been notified of this incident?" he asks.  
"He is aware that there is a situation we are monitoring," the chief says carefully. Meaning they hadn't bothered Kyouya's father with the details of what was most likely a prank. Good.

"I will take responsibility for oversight in this matter," he tells the chief. Implying that his father's involvement is not at all desireable, and should be avoided regardless of any perceived inconvenience to Kyouya himself. It's only what is expected of him, after all.

"Understood, Ootori-san."

With that established, he sets the note at the far left side of his desk, placing it at the end of the evening's priorities. Opening his briefcase, he puts the card deck atop the note as a paperweight, and then organizes the rest of his work in neat stacks from left to right--last priority to first--as always. Then he removes his tie and shoes, leaving them for the valet, and is just hanging his uniform jacket when a subtle knock at his door announces the delivery of tea and refreshments. It is precisely on time.

*

There are instances when Kyouya nearly chafes under the mechanical predicability of his home life. Times he almost wishes there were more room for invention, spontenaiety, in this place. 

Like Tamaki's life, which is nothing more or less than a perpetual whirlwind of spontanous happenings. But he knows Tamaki's life isn't really for him. The boy is an ongoing force of nature, steered into the right channels by sheer luck and the odd flash of his own lopsided brilliance. Kyouya doesn't posses that brand of luck, and likely never will. Instead, he relies upon his ability to manipulate his environment, always looking for a new advantage, and directing all his energy at maintaining the advantages he has.

It seems that the more responsibility he takes on, the more variables and uncertainties he must navigate. And knowing the successes he desires are predicated upon both responsibility and risk, he chooses to appreciate predictability when he finds it. 

This is why, with competition for the Central Salon and the threatning letters becoming foremost in his thoughts, he falls back on rigid, predictable routine to restore matters to their proper perspective.

He drinks his tea, and reads the assigned pages for Economics first. Then he proofreads the History essay due tomorrow. With his second cup of tea, he tackles Calculus and once that work is complete, he takes a break to shower and dress for dinner.

It is only in the shower, his eyes closed and head bent under the pounding hot water, that Kyouya allows his thoughts to wander unsupervised. As the steam billows, and his skin reddens, he wonders about the Hitachiin's festival costumes, what shape they'll take this time, and whether they might for once be more practical than artistic. 

He replays his conversation with the security chief earlier, recalling with some pleasure that the man had spoken respectfully, as though he were addressing the master of the family, and not merely the third son. He thinks about his Physics exam that morning, how it was almost too easy, and briefly tries to guess what's being served at dinner tonight.

The tension in his neck and shoulders washes gradually away, with the sud-specked water streaming down his skin. He rinses his hair, and lets the water pound at his lower back until the muscles feel as loose and pliant as a gum eraser. And then clean, clearheaded and hungry, he dresses for dinner.

*

At last, after dinner, he turns his full attention to the items at the left end of his desk. He opens the package of cards first, and tips them into his palm. The cards feel cool and rigid in his hand. He taps the deck against the edge of his desk, once, twice, and uses his thumb to split the cards evenly between both hands. 

The first shuffle is awkward; the deck is too rigid to flex, and the cards collapse unevenly together. The second shuffle is no better, and on his third attempt several cards scatter from his hands and go flying.

He smiles a little to himself, thinking he was better coordinated in his dream, and begins picking the stray cards off his desk. One lays face-down on that ridiculous threat letter, and it isn't anything like supersition that makes him turn the card over when he picks it up. He was going to anyway. 

And the only reason the goosebumps go prickling down his spine, when he sees what card he's turned over, is that he'd just been thinking,  _Hmmm. Wouldn't it be funny, if I got the Joker?_

But of course it's the Joker, because he's dealing with Host Club business here, where the normal probability of coincidence becomes meaningless and the truth is not only stranger than fiction, it's stranger than any other frame of reference Kyouya's ever had. 

It happens in the very instant he sees the card, even as the chills are fanning out across his arms, that he knows what his plan is. He sees the entire scope of it, as plain as a topographical map bathed in a spotlight. He understands exactly how he will employ Haruhi, while at the same time keeping her close to his chest (so to speak) in case of need.

It is a good plan, too. One of his best to date, in that it's both elegant and practically fail-safe, and if played correctly, the return on it will be considerably more than the effort he himself puts in. 

All he will have to do, is stay on his toes with respect to the details. Just like always.

*

Step 1.

The plan doesn't go into action straightaway; Kyouya waits for the optimal conditions before making his first move. He waits for an afternoon when the twins are looking restless, two identical pairs of bright eyes scanning the Third Music Room, in search of new diversion. When their heads are turned, Kyouya discreetly palms the cards from his briefcase, and sets them at the edge of a nearby table. By the time they discover it, he's across the room checking on the coffee supply.

"Eh, Hikaru, look. Someone left these cards here."

And with that, the trap is set.

 

Step 2.

Three days of bad weather lead to a drop in activity, and prompt a contagious restlessness among the club members (excepting Mori-senpai, who has a natural immunity to the condition). It is the perfect opportunity for a gaming mania to briefly sweep the group, the way such things sometimes do. It is started by the twins, who then badger Haruhi mercilessly until she surrenders and joins them. Her inclusion draws Tamaki's interest, and with his participation comes the added challenge of playing for stakes.

The trap is baited.

 

Step 3.

On the the fourth day of hard rain, sensing the novelty of the cards is just passing its peak, Kyouya stages himself at a table conspicuously within Tamaki's sight line. He takes up a book instead of his usual work, and does his best to radiate ennui.

"Come join us for a game, Mother," says Tamaki, adding some perverse nonsense about wholesome family bonding activities which has both Haruhi and the Hitachiin rolling their eyes with disquieting similarity.

Kyouya bites the side of his cheek hard to keep his smugness in check, and pretends to weigh the merits of the suggestion.  
"I suppose there's no harm in a game or two, provided the stakes are reasonable."

"We'll play Stinking Rich," says Kaoru, flicking his glance at Haruhi. "You can't go wrong with those stakes."

Hikaru snickers, Haruhi looks lost, and once again Kyouya wonders,  which is it?

Do they corner her like this because they truly have no grasp of interaction with anyone who isn't themselves, or are they trying to keep her at arm's length because she terrifies them as much as she fascinates them? Everyone's seen her reduce Tamaki to a pile of silent ash, with nothing but a look and an offhand comment, and Tamaki is the boldest of them all. And in his way, as obtuse as she. 

It's an interesting mystery, really.

"What's Stinking Rich?" Haruhi asks. From the far end of the table, Mori-senpai sighs.

"Don't worry," Hikaru tells her. "We'll play by commoner rules. It's easy."

Kyouya takes his time winning, for appearences' sake, but twenty-seven minutes later, the trap is sprung.

"Destitute!" Haruhi moans.

"So for the next two weeks," Kyouya grins, as though the benefits of winning the game are only just dawning on him, "Haruhi is to be my slave?"

It is always extraordinary to him, the moment a good strategy rolls into motion. And this truly is one of his very best. He wastes no time giving Haruhi her assignment: to discover the author of those crass, piddling threat letters. He has a short list of candidates already in mind and judiciously keeps it to himself, suspecting she will better appreciate a problem she has solved on her own, and if he gives her any hints she'll work it out much too quickly. 

As it is, he assigns Tamaki to work with her for added confusion, and for last-minute insurance on the day before the contest, he hands her a copy of the school blueprints and strongly suggests she memorize them.

*

The school newspaper publishes a special edition the day before the contest, billing it as a "Cross-Campus Ultra Race" and to Kyouya's annoyance, touting the Football Club as team most favored to win. All week he had been generating an illicit point spread on the eighteen teams participating, and had halfway hoped to circulate his numbers among Ouran's wagering types for a tidy commission on contest day. But this newspaper publicity not only skews the points hopelessly, it sets fire to the school grapevine, already buzzing with the supposedly dramatic rivalry between the Host Club and the Football Club.

Said rivalry is in truth nothing but an absurd grudge against Kyouya himself, held since kindergarten for some damned reason by Kuze Takashi, the Football Club president. Regardless, the odds-shift and this new public perception of his club as dark horse favourite exclude him from offering a fair wager, and he's forced to bin the project.

Kuze comes by to gloat and glower, giving Kyouya opportunity to finally confirm that he isn't the one responsible for the threat letters. The language fits Kuze's mentality, excepting the punctuation, but Kuze isn't the sort to employ an indirect approach. He prefers his intimidation unsubtle and personal, and he could certainly never muster the patience to wait upon a reaction.

He isn't the only one ready to strike Kuze from the list. After witnessing the boy's visit, Haruhi goes into an abstracted sort of trance, wandering the Third Music Room with a familiar light dawning in her eyes. In the nick of time Kyouya identifies this harbinger of her insight, speeding toward him like a freight train, and he grabs the blueprints to distract her with.

*


	3. Chapter 3

3.

 

"Hmm. So they mean to eliminate a large number of competitors early on," he observes to no one in particular.

The race has been under way for an hour, and Kyouya has been watching carefully from the sidelines. Belatedly he realises that he's not alone; Haruhi stands nearby, and it seems his statement has caught her undivided attention. It stands as a reminder to him, to watch where he chooses to think aloud. With a nod her direction, he heads off to see Kaoru and Hikaru's landslide victory in the memorization quiz.

The pace of events quickly picks up, as does the heat of competition, with more and more participants being quickly swept aside. By late afternoon, it is down to three teams: The Host Club, the Football Club, and after a surprising show of endurance, the Art Club. But the latter are defeated in the Campus History Trivia challenge, and then the field is down to two.

The final stage of the contest is introduced by a list of clues, hints leading to the location of a hidden winners' trophy. Both teams of finalists determine that the clues all point to the West Gym, where the Senior class has commissioned a scale-model replica of Venice, as their festival exhibit. 

As with most things at Ouran, no expense was spared in the installation: the seniors' Sunset Venice is complete with authentic canals, bridges and roads made of native stone, and several notable landmarks. The door opens to Venice at sunset, and the Host Club is there.

They reach the entrance still dressed in their handsome--and uncomfortable--Hitachiin uniforms, but their lead on the Football Club gives them just enough time for a wardrobe change. At least this is how Kyouya justifies it to his team; truly he wants his dramatic neck-and-neck finish, and cannot have it unless the Football Club catches up. The Carnivale-themed apparel is no more practical to their endeavor than the last costumes, but at least they're easier to move in.

That is until Tamaki, taunted by a desperate Kuze, leaps from the Host Club's gondola (for reasons known only to himself), and sinks like a stone into the canal, dragged down by his sodden glittering robes. Kyouya would have made pointed comment on what Tamaki's recklessness might cost them, but as the gondola drifted to a halt, with Mori and Hikaru wrestling Tamaki up into the stern, he is more concerned with the second clue in their list.

The general interpretation of the final clue ( **Between the Holy Mother and Angel** ), has them bearing toward the Accademia Bridge; the obvious choice given its position between the models of  _Sant'Angelo_ and _Santa Maria Della Salute_. And all the clues except the second one seem to support this premise.

'Go up and sink'?  It's the only hint which Kyouya cannot reconcile with their destination. Both teams assume it indicates they should look in a westward direction, because west is where the sun sets, or sinks. And Tamaki has already demonstrated the possibility of sinking in the West Gym. But what about going _up_ to sink?

When the answer finally comes to him, it's startling and bears such a host of implications that he's left breathless. As the Academia Bridge floats slowly into view, he has just enough time to think that this is going to be a very, very close race indeed, and to pray that Haruhi is truly as good as his estimate of her.

_I am gambling a great deal on you, little Joker. I have no other option, now._

Because where the Accademia bridge ought to be, there is only a high construction barrier, with signs forbidding unauthorized personnel. They were all misdirected.

Sunset Venice is a dead end, leaving the Host Club and the Football Club standing baffled before the unfinished bridge, wondering what other location the clues could possibly have meant. All the players save two, launch immediately into debate with their respective teams. There is so much excitement, blame-laying and noisy argument; no one notices quiet Haruhi wandering off to think, or furtive Kyouya slipping up to watch her from the shadows.

He is aware of the adrenaline surging in him, as he urgently wills her to  _understand_ now, to turn that incisive mind on the problem and know what he has just grasped. She has the tools already; all the puzzle pieces are in order. All she has to do is put them together, and quickly. In the past two weeks, he's memorized the far-off dreamy look that means she's thinking hard, the tiny crease of determination between her eyes, and he has vacillated all along between care of his secrets and secret fascination with her nimble, relentless intellect.

 _There!_  There is that gleam in her eyes again, and his heart skips a beat when it flares brightly.

 _That's it. She has it. Move!_  Just as she's opening her mouth to call the group, he seizes her, feeling all through him the wild rush of the winning ticket, the lucky roulette spin. Even as he whispers, "Hush. Did you figure it out, too?" he wants to laugh out loud and spin her about in celebration, but the winning isn't quite done yet.

"Mmmph!" she protests from behind his hand. "Kyouya-senpai!" She has the look of a small startled creature, brown eyes unnaturally wide. He loosens his hold on her before she panics, and leans in close, keeping tight rein on his trembling excitement.

With a few quiet words, he sets his final play into motion.

"But....we--," she stammers, frozen at the enormity of what he's asking.

"Haruhi," he admonishes softly, letting his open expression communicate what there is no time to find words for, and what mere words might fail to express anyway. With a single look, he shows her everything: his esteem, his confidence in her, and his desire to see her take this small but critical portion of the day's victory and make it her very own.

She swallows, and nods, and then she's sprinting off to their real destination alone, shedding as much of her cumbersome costume as possible on the run. Watching her disappear in the distance, Kyouya thinks he feels an odd small part of himself go with her. 

But there's no time to examine the notion; it is the work of seconds for both Tamaki and Kuze to reach the same conclusion he and Haruhi had--that the contest is meant to end on the roof of the West building, where the heated pool is (and where one could very well go up and sink).

The leaders' voices ring out; Tamaki and Kuze are marshaling their teams for the final race. Kyouya strips off his costume and launches into motion, fired with the same fierce determination he sees in the eyes of Tamaki, Kaoru, Hikaru, Takashi, and Mitsukuni. 

All their cards are on the table now. There are no more bets to be made. All that's left is to run, run for the prize with everything in them.

*


	4. Chapter 4

4.

On the final flight of stairs to the roof, as the Football Club is roughly jostling their way to the front, Kyouya discovers the one jeopardizing weakness in his strategy: Kuze--President of the Football Club--will be the first to spot the contest trophy, and if Haruhi is in his path, there's no telling what he'll do. Considering his advantage of size, speed, and pure aggression, she doesn't stand a chance against him.

Gripped with sudden terrible apprehension, Kyouya surges forward, pushing at the rear echelon of football players, but they in turn crush him back into the stair railing. He's kept from stumbling backward by Hikaru and Tamaki shoving him from behind, regaining his balance just as Kuze slams open the door to the roof, and barrels through.

He hears shouting and curses, and the noise of a heavy splash as he clears the final steps, with Tamaki at his side. He knows who's fallen into the pool before his feet even touch the rooftop, but what he doesn't expect is the absolute rage which falls over him, at the glimpse of her small dark head sinking into the water, her hands grasping uselessly at the air. Next to him, Tamaki is already making a beeline for Haruhi, but Kyouya pushes him away.

"I'll see to this! You go for the crown!" He points to the alcove at the pool's opposite end, where a pair of statues (the Virgin Mary and an Angel) flank the winners' trophy: a brightly polished gold crown, set upon the seat of a high-backed throne. Just for an instant, Tamaki wavers in desperate indecision, but Kyouya pushes him again and he explodes into motion, running recklessly, headlong down the length of the pool after Kuze.

With the same unthinking haste, Kyouya throws his glasses aside, kicks his shoes off, and dives into the pool after Haruhi. His ears are filled with rushing water and his own thudding heartbeat as he fights his way downward, grasping towards the vague dark shape below him. He reaches, grabs a fistful of her costume and yanks as hard as he can, wrapping his other arm around her chest, and then kicking with all his might toward the surface.

They breach the water together, Haruhi struggling and choking, sucking in ragged lungfuls of air. Dimly he's aware of furious action happening at the pool's far end, but his only concern at the moment is that he has her, that she's breathing, and safe--albeit frantic--in his arms.

"Don't fight," he urges, catching his own breath, his heart feeling ready to explode. Her saturated robes must nearly double her weight in the pool, and it's all he can do to keep her head above water.

"I've got you. Just be still." 

Luckily his words penetrate her blind survival instinct, and she subsides against him, allowing him to drag them both to the shallows. At the pool's edge she reaches for the cement rim, and for a moment he collapses half against her shoulder and half against the poolside, his legs trembling too hard to support him.

"Senpai!" she gasps, clutching his arm. The world is a blur without his glasses; he can just make out her wide eyes blinking at him, the shiny wet hair plastered to her forehead.

"Are you hurt?" he asks between heaving breaths, squinting to try and see for himself.  
"I'm--I'm okay. I'm so sorry, Sen--"

"Don't," he interrupts, tightening his arm around her impulsively. "You shouldn't--."

A wild chorus of shouting erupts across the pool, but the purpose of the noise doesn't register with him at first. At that precise moment, his whole awareness is occupied by Haruhi, and this sudden, startling consciousness of her body leaning into his.

 _Oh,_  he has time to think.  _So this is what all the fuss is about._

And then reality falls on him like a slap; he realizes he's standing in a swimming pool fully clothed, and past the other end of the pool, someone has just taken the crown in the Cross Campus Ultra Race. Of course he can't see a damned thing without his glasses.

"Who?" he asks and Haruhi, understanding, murmurs, "Tamaki."

In the next instant, the rest of the Host Club are descending on the pool's edge, jubilant, and dragging them both from the water. There are towels and victory cheers, and Tamaki rushing full-tilt at Haruhi, as Mori-senpai silently presses Kyouya's glasses into his hand. 

He slides them on gratefully, but he must be in some sort of shock because he doesn't feel anything like he ought to right now.

*

When the day is done, the awards made official, the applause died away and all the players gone home, Kyouya is left alone with naught but his insomnia and hindsight for company. For most of the night he sits up in bed with the lights out, restlessly shuffling his deck of cards, and struggling to even the balance sheet of the day's events in his mind. 

What it comes out to is notable profit against potentially catastrophic loss; the winning outcome against what could've been injury--or worse--to one of the Host Club's own. And in the weighing of each, Kyouya can't help asking himself whether he would have resorted to Kuze's final tactics, had their positions been switched.

He is inclined to think not; shoving a weaker, smaller student into the pool was an unnecessary and brutal act by any civilized standards (and bad strategy to boot, considering how it had motivated Tamaki). On the other hand, how culpable in the matter was Kyouya himself? He had deliberately sent Haruhi ahead of their group, directly into the Football Club's path. And it was his decision, no one else's, that left her vulnerable to Kuze's unpredictable temper.

His was an ambivalent victory at best, he decides in the bleak dark hours before sunrise. His plans had all worked, the Host Club is now celebrated schoolwide, and the Central Salon is theirs for the festival, where every parent and visitor will know that  _this_ was the famous top-class club that won the "Ultra-Race". This was the club that bested eighteen other teams, and emerged at the pinnacle.

 _Everyone has what they wanted,_ he thinks, tipping his hand, letting the cards scatter in a heap across his lap.  _I got what I wanted. So when will this start to feel the way winning is supposed to?_

The answer, he admits after a difficult moment, is never. Because the things he was supposed to have wanted, are not in the end what he truly desires. And what irks him most, is knowing he bartered too much for an inferior prize, when something of far greater worth had twice been in his arms that day.

_And I let her go._

He pulls off his glasses, pinches at the bridge of his nose, and sighs. In the end, what he truly desired most was not an option for him. And it is pointless to resent all the reasons this is so. Childish, to sweep the cards off his blanket to the floor, fling his glasses on the bedside table, collapse miserably across the pillows and succumb to the pang of loneliness twisting through him.


	5. Epilogue

When the day comes, Kyouya enters into the motions of the festival with unwavering, perfect form. He plays gracious Host to the Central Salon's visitors, appropriately modest Team Player to those who congratulate. He waves from the horse-drawn carriage, parading about the school grounds for the benefit of spectators, for the benefit of the Host Club. 

Never once is his smile tarnished by the disappointment he harbors; in no respect does he fail to rise to this occasion. The world expects, and he exceeds that expectation, for he is Ootori. It is what he was born to do.

"...if he has the talent," his father tells the surrounding guests at the reception, "I don't mind naming my third son heir to the family business." This news comes as unexpectedly to Kyouya as it does to everyone else assembled, and he can't deny the momentary gratification it brings.

 _Listen to that. There's your consolation,_  he tells himself. And if it isn't quite enough, at least it gets him through the day.

No one notices when his eyes linger on a certain point across the room, where a particular person stands. Kyouya is very careful in that respect. No one realizes how acutely aware of her he is, whether she's seated next to him in the carriage, or three meters off conversing with Chairman Suoh, plucking nervously at her cuffs as the man rhapsodizes over her (for Suoh Tamaki is every inch his father's son). 

And when he explains to Haruhi why Tamaki's grandmother behaves so cruelly to the boy, no one, not his friends or even Haruhi herself, suspect that he's taking a lesson from the story. Reminding himself he could be far worse off than he is.

Thankfully the charade gets easier as the day wears on, as visitors continually stream through the Salon to be entertained, to be served coffee and refreshments; to satisfy their curiosity with respect to this Host Club which has so keenly captivated Ouran High School's girls. He funnels all his energy into keeping track of the logistics, making sure the visitors' needs are promptly attended, and any potential mishaps are averted. 

Above all, he makes certain that as much as possible, he is entirely too busy to think.

*

In the lull before the evening dance party, the Hitachiin twins--finding themselves bored and apparently unsupervised--manage to bully Haruhi into a feminine costume. They drag her into the party, wearing a long straight wig and a fetching dress, passing her off as her 'cousin', Lady Natsumi. Upon her entrance, Tamaki (predictably, and to the twins' vast and wicked amusement) goes completely to pieces, abandoning all decorum and common sense to monopolize her company.

From that point it's no secret to anyone with eyes, that Tamaki fancies Haruhi desperately, excepting perhaps Tamaki and Haruhi themselves. Whether either of them will ever recognize this esoteric not-quite-romance (and having recognized it, ever act upon it), it's impossible for Kyouya to judge. He watches their interaction play out from the fringe of the party, deciding the important thing is that Tamaki, in his own ardent misdirected way, had desired the girl well before Kyouya even took notice of her potential. 

Tamaki. Kyouya's own frustrating, devoted, utterly selfless friend. Tamaki, who would doubtless jump off a cliff if Kyouya asked, because friendship to him is an ongoing act of absolute conviction, and unwavering trust. In the course of this friendship, Kyouya has agreed he'd rather share that conviction than trade it for anything, and chooses to let that decision stand now, even if it disqualifies him from a pursuit he hasn't yet had the chance to begin.

It's not an especially happy realization, but he knows Tamaki too well to harbor any ill-will over it. Even watching his friend flutter about Haruhi like a moth around a glowing lamp, exhausting himself to stay within the warmth of her attention, Kyouya finds he isn't jealous. There's no denying Haruhi dresses up very prettily, but this 'Lady Natsumi' character pales in comparison to the formidable person he believes Haruhi is destined to become.

*

There is a time to grasp victory in both hands, and a time to wait empty-handed in readiness for something greater. And discerning between the two is the secret power of the Third Son, the gift of Kyouya's own birthright; a talent he can use better than anyone.

He watches her from across the crowd that night, trying to see her as others must: a quiet girl with thoughtful eyes and a ready smile, moving with fawnlike awkwardness in her borrowed party shoes. He thinks she will not grow up to be like the other princesses the Host Club entertains. But who will she be, on the day she finally comes into her own?

 _I want to see that._  The thought hits him, sudden and blazing with promise.  _When her day comes, I want to be there. I want to know._

And at that moment of determination, Kyouya senses a change occuring in him. As though somewhere in the puzzle of his destiny, a fundamental shape is at last shifting into place. It is the work of seconds, but so profound that the memory of it is bound to stay with him the rest of his days. Down in the still, sacred place where his deepest desires are kept, he feels the prayer-wheel of family expectation reach the end of its timeworn circuit.

He forgets about the party, and his obligations to it. He forgets about his father, Tamaki, and everyone around him save one person: the girl who in that very moment turns, meets his eyes from across the room, and sets his heart racing with a tentative smile. Thus is his prayer-wheel repurposed for a new petition; a secret one which he, and no one else, will be author to.

 _I will be there,_ he promises silently, answering her smile with a tilt of his head, hand over his heart; the quaint courtly gesture of--for now--the Perfect Host. 

 

*****


End file.
